


The Phantom of the Operating Room

by srsly_yes



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M, Slash, crackfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-16
Updated: 2008-07-16
Packaged: 2017-10-07 13:05:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/srsly_yes/pseuds/srsly_yes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House and Wilson role-play and get more than they bargained for. The story begins in a dream-like state, please be patient. Everything will make sense as you continue reading.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Phantom of the Operating Room

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning: **Fluffy Thriller (With Humor!). Spoilers for pre-strike S4. Crackfic.  
> **Disclaimer:** Don't own, just borrow a scene, a line, a nuance. At worst, I'm a word klepto.  
> **A/N: **This story was inspired by Hugh Laurie's comment at the LA Times Emmy panel (link to the video at the end of the story). He said House was like the Phantom of the Opera, so I took it from there. Some historical trivia is presented at the end of the story.  
> Kudos and an extra helping of Fruit Loops to my beta, [](http://bookfan85.livejournal.com/profile)[**bookfan85**](http://bookfan85.livejournal.com/) for her support and suggestions.

_In sleep he sang to me,  
in dreams he came ...  
that voice which calls to me and speaks my name  . . . _

_._

_And do  
I dream again?  
For now  
I find the Phantom of the Opera is there - inside my mind . . ._  
-_Phantom of the Opera_ by Andrew Lloyd Webber

Many people claimed the hospital was haunted. Rumors permeated the air like smoke. If the operation was a success but the patient died, medical personnel would raise an eyebrow and nod to each other in understanding. When sad and mysterious melodies floated up through the stairwell, or even a crumb of food went missing, it was blamed on the ghost.

There were some brave and cynical souls who laughed and challenged the believers. “Show me, people! Find the ghoul and ask him to come and see me. Wilson’s potato chips are missing and I’m hungry.”

The devotees smiled sheepishly and turned their heads away, but their opinion did not change. Too many heard a madman’s laugh coming from the bowels of the building when the clock struck midnight.

It caused palpable sensations. Hands became cold and clammy. Goosebumps traveled over arms up to their scalps. Most shuddered and closed their eyes in an effort to forget the chilled breath that lingered on the back of their necks.

Whether one was a stalwart defender or dedicated debunker there was one point of agreement—no one wanted to venture down to Princeton Plainsboro's subterranean level; the sub-basement that sat upon the remains of an ancient asylum.

Only those desperate to hide from the light of day would ever seek the secret passages, spiral staircases and underground springs that hid in its depths.

One man knew all it’s secrets.

He was the Phantom of the operating room.

* * *

At the end of a long dark passage there was a chamber. The devil’s own cathedral. A stream of gold passed by the threshold, reflecting the softly glowing light from scores of candles lit within. Burning tapers gripped by gilded multi-branched candelabras caused the walls to dance by firelight. A rock crystal glacier hung from the cavernous vault. A multitude of intricately shaped prisms distributed dazzling rainbows on the curtained walls. Thick carpets transformed the cold, naked floors into Scheherazade’s dream. The room was a miniature palace.

Carved Victorian furniture underscored the sumptuousness of the room. A tufted blue silk tete-a-tete marked the center directly below the chandelier. Assorted tuffets and ottomans dotted the interior. A lush fainting couch and a gigantic four-poster stretched out from a distant shadowed wall. Sculpted gargoyles perched on each bedpost, grinning like Cheshire cats warmed by the ever-moving flames. The bedding was a sea of blue, green, and gold.  Lavish jacquard silks and embroidered coverlets rippled in layers as waves upon the sea. An abundance of pillows of all shapes and sizes trimmed in jet, fringe, and tassels mounded in a careless heap upon the bed.  
   
In the middle of one wall was the centerpiece of the room, an organ with a forest of pipes that reached to the ceiling and melted out of sight into the gloom. The staggered keyboards looked like inverted tiers on a wedding cake. A confusion of pedals shot out from the base.

It was the perfect throne for the masked creature commanding the behemoth before him. A pearl grey silk-lined cape nearly covered the perfectly cut formal black tailcoat, snowy white waistcoat, and gold studded shirt.

The notes tumbled throughout the room, blending and swirling in solemn delight. The white mask partially covering the organist’s face did not prevent his fingers from finding and stroking the right keys, gliding over them with sensual delight. Tickling and enticing the lover under his fingertips to moan in melodic pleasure.

At first it appeared that the musician was alone in this gothic vignette, but he was not. From among the damask silk throws and pillows, someone stirred. A vision in sapphire and antique silver lace rose from the bed. Every fold in the gown was designed to shimmer and hypnotize. Cinched tightly around the waist, ample breasts nestled in a foam of frothy ruffles. Graceful hands emerged from flowing sleeves. A train fell from a bustle and trailed behind the back of the gown as the figure walked toward the "Angel of Music."

Vanity motivated the owner to design the dress, but the ultimate objective was seduction. The extravagance deliberately framed the dark beauty of the face. The color highlighted the creamy white skin accented by winsome dark eyes lined with long eyelashes. Chestnut curls tumbled down in wanton abandon to the waistline.

The figure appeared to be sleepwalking, moving silently with one arm held out toward the masked man. When the hand was inches from the jaw, the fingers hesitated and quivered. Then with one determined motion, the hand snatched the mask from the face.

The organist issued a blood-curdling howl as he turned around to behold the one person in the world he held dear. His ruined visage in turn was greeted by…

A heart stopping high-pitched scream. The shapely body crumpled to the floor, tresses fanning around the beautiful face.

The monster knelt next to his beloved and pressed his ear to the fulsome breasts. Not finding what he was seeking, he allowed a curse to slip from under his breath as he held his fingers to the neck and was rewarded with a pulse. Reassured but frustrated, he slapped the bloodless cheek.

“Wilson, wake up, you idiot. It’s me.”

Slowly, the lids fluttered and soft brown eyes regained focus. A look of panic replaced the dreamy visage, but the tuxedoed man grabbed the French-manicured fingers and pressed it to his scarred cheek.

“Don’t faint on me again. It’s grease paint.”

Wilson's lips pursed and thinned as his mouth turned down in disdain. “Why didn’t you warn me.”

House helped his lover sit up. “I was going for that authentic girly scream of yours. You’re a man who isn’t afraid of wearing false eyelashes and makeup. Why would a little artwork on my face cause you to faint? You knew we were staging _Phantom of the Opera_ tonight.”

Not wanting to admit to nearly peeing in his French lingerie, Wilson smoothed his dress and tossed his head of curls, stalling for time to think of an answer. He clutched at a last minute inspiration. “Actually, it wasn't your grizzly artwork. It’s this damn corset you wanted me to wear. I can’t breathe.”.

House contained his smile as Wilson gathered his skirt and stood up from the floor. “I know how important keeping that plus size figure under control is to you.”

“I wear a size eighteen, and it’s only because of my broad shoulders.” Wilson hissed, but he betrayed his vanity when he proclaimed, “I have a size fourteen waist.”

House snorted. “Yeah, you and John Travolta.”

Before tossing anymore insults, House waited for Wilson's feet, stuffed into size thirteen triple wide pumps, to stop wobbling. The last of his concern vanished when he saw a warm blush complement the rouged cheeks.

His words were rough and low. “You do look incredible tonight.” He nibbled and teased the lobe of a bejeweled ear.

He felt something round and hard slip and catch in his throat. He began choking, and before he could administer the Heimlich maneuver, Wilson came to his rescue. Wilson's arms snaked around from his back and double fisted hands thrust upward and underneath his ribcage, knocking the breath out of him. An object dropped from his mouth and onto the floor. He spied the culprit rolling away. While coughing, he managed to say, "What the fuck was that?!"

"That was supposed to be a pearl earring. I used some eyelash adhesive to stick it to my ear." Feathery lashes batted over Wilson's puppy dog eyes. He glanced away in shame as if he had been caught chewing a slipper. “Sorry” he shrugged. “Bad idea.”

“Next time you raid your mom's’s jewelry box, get your ears pierced first.”

Indignation replaced remorse. “It wasn’t one of my mother’s, it was one of Julie’s. I found a discarded box of broken jewelry the other day.” Arms, folded across his copious bosom. “I’m not going to run around the hospital with diamond studs in my ears.”

House considered the remark before he replied, “But, you’ve been giving it some thought.”

“Well, it does look good on Chase.”

A streak of jealously numbed House’s libidinous thoughts. “Window shopping again?”

Two hands placatingly stroked his lapels. “You know I like my men rugged, not pretty.”

House was dragged off-balance as Wilson's well-groomed hands smashed him against big bouncy breasts. His mouth mashed against a lipsticked one, and his lips parted as a tongue probed and inflamed his senses.

House could not wait a moment longer. He gave the lips a tender farewell kiss and drew away, dropping to a footstool, and pulling the heavy skirt over his head.

He groaned when his eyes confronted… lace pantalettes. Layers of froth and padding disguised what he was looking for. He groped for an opening, and a small foothill began forming from its hiding place, promising to burst the linen seams as it grew into Mt. Kilimanjaro. As House scrabbled, he could barely hear grunts and short begging whines from above. It was getting hot under the layered fabric. Between the trapped body heat from Wilson’s groin and House’s own sexual enthusiasm, beads of sweat rolled down his forehead and burned his eyes.

“What the hell, Wilson? Why didn’t you slap on a chastity belt as well? How do you pee in this thing?"

From above, Wilson rumbled something inaudible. House made out one muffled word, “Velcro,” and  before he suffocated, was rescued by a stream of cool air pouring over him from an uplifted skirt and moisturized, sure hands triumphantly ripped open a front panel.

Everything dimmed as a heavy blanket of soft cloth descended again. His hand sought the jewels from the inner sanctum, and choked on his annoyance… _Goddamn Fruit of the Looms._

Spots began to swim before his eyes. It was a steam bath under the airless skirt. The heavy layers smothered him, and not in a good way. He began calling out their safe word, “Woz-Wozniak,” as he removed the bulky brocade and gulped down fresh air while levering up on his silver-topped ebony cane.

Wilson grabbed him under the arms and assisted him to his feet. Concern written all over his face as he inspected him. “Are you alright? Speak to me, House. I heard you call out the coma guy’s name.”

“Your nether region is hot as Hades under there, my delicate flower. What are you dressed for? A Rose Parade float?"

Fingertips alternately fluffed and smoothed the lacy décolletage at the neckline and sleeves. “I'm playing Christine. She's a virgin. Besides, I take these reenactments seriously.”

House rolled his eyes. “Stop thinking reenactment. Begin thinking kink.”  
   
“Easy for you to say.”

House’s mouth dropped open as a painted silk fan appeared from the depths of the mysterious bosom. With practiced ease, Wilson flicked the accessory open and sent soothing currents of air in his direction.

“My gown is an exact copy of an 1870 original.” Caterpillar eyebrows reduced to half their size with artfully blended makeup raised as he snapped haughtily, “Where did you buy your suit and cane? At the Halloween store?”

“Only the best theatrical costume shop in the tri-state area for you my sweet, and the cane is an antique.” House twirled it through his fingers a couple of times and leered. “Does the size make you swoon, or is it not large enough for you, Aunt Pittypat?”

Wilson appeared to regain a portion of his sense of humor, but wasn’t ready to concede. “And the music?" He huffed. “Why did you play, _A Whiter Shade of Pale._ It's not in period.”

"Because it's cool music for the organ and makes you hot."

The fan snapped shut with a flourish. “Oh… you have a point.”

“And a tail to go with it.” House quipped. He debated whether he should take advantage of the moment to kiss and suck the tender skin around Wilson's throat and risk getting knocked senseless by the pendulous necklace draped around his neck. Good thing he had a self-destructive streak. Perhaps, it would be better to take a deep breath and dive under the gown once more.

He didn’t act fast enough.

The Wilson Express was beginning to build up a head of steam. The hands on his hips were like the cowcatcher grill on the front of a locomotive prepared to divide a herd of cattle.

“It’s always about you and your fantasies isn’t it?”

“I thought you liked my ideas. You seemed to enjoy your slinky self in King Kong’s hand as he blew you and your hair dry.”

Bedroom eyes softened Wilson’s face, “The bellows was a stroke of genius,” but then he seemed to wake from a dream and rumbled, “That gorilla hand was a buzzkill.”

“How so?” House smirked; he knew exactly what was coming.

“Ginormous gorilla hands, House,” Wilson sputtered, "tend to make objects, especially cocks, look smaller than they really are.”

“You have nothing to be ashamed about.”

Mollified, Wilson checked his bustle and smoothed the waves of his wig. When he was satisfied, he batted his long, butterfly lashes. “How about doing one of mine next time?”

House couldn’t suppress a sigh. “What ball-breaking diva did you have in mind?”

“Scarlett O’Hara”

“Shit. Clark Gable didn’t give a damn, but I do. She’s a regular black widow spider.”

Wilson’s mouth began to pinch into a thin line as he raised his hand to rub the back of his neck. He started to pace.

House paused, his virgin was becoming an iron maiden. “Out with your plan, Selznick. What grand production did you have in mind?”

“I haven’t thought it through completely, but instead of an old basement operating room, we could book a suite in Atlantic City.”

“You and hotel rooms.”

“Keeps moss from growing on me.”

"You’re treat?"

“Always is,” returned the resigned reply, but Wilson quickly rallied, “Except for this.” His outstretched arm took in the luxurious setting as if Vanna White was presenting a Cadillac Escalade for audience approval. “Whose life did you save to fund this fantasy, and who did you con to haul all this stuff down here?”

House felt his heart skip a beat. “You’re the patron saint of historical reenactments, I thought you created this. He pulled out a small red leather volume out of his pocket, _Anatomy Descriptive and Surgical_ by Dr. Henry Gray, and removed a folded piece of paper from under the cover. It was a handwritten sheet that included a map, date and time. "I thought you left this on my desk. An invitation for tonight with a first edition of _Gray’s Anatomy._"

Wilson shot back a startled, wide-eye look. He patted the side of his dress until he found what he was looking for and withdrew from an invisible pocket a similar green volume. He read from the cover, "_Anatomist’s Vade Mecum_ by Erasmus Wilson,” and waved an identical sheet of paper. “This isn’t from you?”

They both stared at each other, trying to piece the puzzle together when they were startled by the roar of thunder crashing over their heads. The organ boomed the first chords of the, _Toccata and Fugue in D Minor._ House felt the room tremble like a vibrating mattress in a cheap motel.

Wilson flinched, the candles flickered and dimmed. When they brightened, Wilson was at his side.

The classical composition transformed into the dark, bittersweet Andrew Lloyd Webber composition, _Phantom of the Opera_, as a cloaked figure materialized on the organ bench—all ivory and black-as-sable elegance.

House felt the hair rise on the back of his neck.

Wilson nervously deflected by speaking in sotto voce, “Great threads. Is Vera Wang designing for men now?”

Before House could shush him, the caped man stopped playing, and in one athletic leap, stood before them. There was no mask hiding his sharp features. His piercing violet eyes looked over his hawk-shaped nose. His narrow lips sat in judgment over a cleft chin. The scent of sweet pomade from his patent leather hair permeated the air. His head tilted back as he unleashed an unholy laugh and rubbed his hands together. “Finally, the night I’ve been waiting for!”

“This isn't the time to swap fashion secrets, Wilson. Looks like your everyday maniacal phantom to me. Can’t reason with ‘em, never will.”

The cackle stopped abruptly. “What, Holmes?! Now that I’ve finally found you and Wilson here, you have the temerity to mock me? No! You fell into my trap and you will hang by your own petard!”

"Hey, watch who you say that to, you petard." House cracked, as Wilson elbowed him in his side to stop.

The raven’s wing hair gleamed as the lunatic stepped closer. “I knew I was on the right track when I found your volumes on display in the hospital library. All puffed up with your own vanity?" He wagged a finger at them. “Thought you could run from me, but you can’t hide. When you received my invitation, you knew it was the end for the two of you. Admit it!” The lining of the cape flashed as he pivoted in place, his energy preventing him from standing still. “Your jealousy drove you to diminish my master work, but it survived in spite of you.”

House limped forward and asked bluntly, “I watch _Passion’s Promise_ when I want bad dialog. Fast forward to the exposition, explain who you are, and why you’re here so we can call it a night and all go home."

The man seemed to be entranced with Wilson and ignored the questions as he stretched out his hand and traced Wilson's jaw with a finger. “Perhaps, I'll steal a kiss from this one,” and then he pointed his finger toward House’s heart. “You don’t recognize me, Holmes?! I’m the author of the book in your hands. The one you proofread for me 150 years ago, and then tried to steal as your own after I died. I’m Henry Gray!"

House looked down at the book, and tried to untangle the knots in the ghost's accusations. This was absurd. It had to be some sort of nightmare he would wake up from. Maybe he was in a coma because Wilson did not dislodge the pearl from his trachea before causing brain damage. Meanwhile, he had to play along.

He began quietly. “First, my name is House. Gregory House. You're confusing me with your long gone editor, Holmes. If you can write, you can certainly read. Check the name on my office door."

There was a flutter from the cape. “But, here you are with this lovely creature… Um, I mean, you are standing beside Erasmus Wilson who authored the anatomy book that my own eclipsed." He turned his anger toward the man who was tilting his head back and pressing his palms to his eyes for the moment. “Wreathed in jealously aren’t you?! Want you’re revenge? You’ll never have a chance. I’ll destroy you first!”

Wilson removed his hands, but looked perplexed. “Stop, this is so wrong… ”

House took the reins and introduced the man in the dress standing beside him. “This is Dr. James Wilson, oncologist and Wonder Woman—I mean Boy Wonder.”

He leaned on his cane as his attention swung back to the phantom before him. “Take a good look at us and get your facts straight, idiot. I can’t believe you ever wrote such a seminal work. Your foot bone must be stuck inside your head bone.”

Footsteps echoed as the ghoul circled around them, stroking his chin as he inspected their features closely. He peered at House. “I thought for sure you were Holmes when I heard you made yourself unpleasant to your fellows and that you were a cripple, but it seems that it is your leg that gives you trouble, not your eyes. You have no need of an eyepatch.”

In his next rotation, Gray’s eyes lingered on Wilson in a threatening manner of a different nature. He fingered the lace neckline, and his eyes glittered in the candlelight. “So it’s Jamey then, not Erasmus?”

House had about all he could take. It was one thing to have his life threatened and to be fingered as some dead handicapped guy. It was another to have his boyfriend chatted up. He tugged off Wilson's wig, and then dove into the depths of his artificial knockers, pulling out foam, packs of silicone, balled tissues, the fan, and a lorgnette, until the top of the hourglass figure had run out of sand. Behold, there was one flat-chested middle-aged man standing before them in a dress.

“Let’s get two things straight, you pompous jackass. He’s a three time loser, and he’s mine!”

Gray stepped back two paces. “I see the grave error that I’ve made.” He swept the bulk of his cape onto his arm, and bowed. “Please accept my apologies. I allowed my vendetta to cloud my judgment.”

If ever an apparition could look forlorn, this one did. He sank onto the tête-à-tête, and dropped his head into his hands.

As House looked around, preparing for a speedy retreat, he saw to his horror Wilson move toward the specter. He lifted the chin, and kissed the forehead. Donning his best bedside manner he murmured, “It’s time to move on, Henry.”

The spirit kissed both hands, and with a flick of his wrist a long stem red rose appeared. “For you, my beautiful lady.” Wilson accepted the offering, and the image of the man began to dissolve.

House yelled after the fading image, "Wilson may be pretty, but he's no hoochie mama. He's a man!"

The wraith was a mere pale sketch as they heard words wafting back to them, “Quite alright. Nobody’s perfect.”

An ear-splitting chord screeched from the organ, and a cold blast of air blew all the candles out.

All that remained of the phantom was the cloying stench of his hair products.

* * *

Dim emergency lights replaced the crystal and candles. The elegant trappings were gone. Yellowed and cracked tiles covered the walls. House was standing in an abandoned turn-of-the-century operating room. Wilson stood beside him looking as surprised as he felt.

Silence ruled except for the loud ticking of a clock. A resounding bell began to toll the hour. It was midnight.

House cleared his throat, “Old Henry’s been hanging out and watching TMC too long.”

Wilson didn’t respond. He waved the bud under his nose checking for any trace of scent and exhaled slowly.

“Let’s get the hell out of here, Jimmy.”

"Coming."

_Bong!_

House hitched to the other side of the doorway and cursed as he stepped into a puddle of water from a leaking overhead pipe. He’d managed to miss it on the way in, but damned his luck now. He looked at the corner of his cape. It was drenched. There would be no refund on his deposit from "Theatrics R’ Us." He turned to warn Wilson, knowing he would have a hissy fit if he stained his precious confection.

What met his eye nearly made his salt-and-pepper hair turn solid white.

Wilson was still in the room. He was picking up the tossed fan as the room plunged back into darkness. All the candles returned and the flames were flickering back to life. Furniture was reappearing piece by piece and taking solid form.

“Stop what you’re doing now, and get out of there!”

_Three._

Wilson looked up, the rose clutched in his hand. A quizzical expression on his face. “Where are you? I can’t see you.”

_Four._

“At the doorway.” House noticed the stem of the rose growing longer, the claw-like thorns bursting through the green stalk. “Drop the rose, Wilson, and run like your life depended on it!”  
     
The organ came alive, spewing a choir of tumultuous groans.

Dr. Henry Gray was back at the organ furiously working the keys and pedals. His shoulders shook from his fiendish laughter.

The requiem grew louder and faster…

_Five_

Wilson tried ridding himself of the flower, but the thorns entwined into his lace sleeves and bit into his skin. The more he struggled, the more the blossom’s barbs dug in. The stem began twirling and spinning into heavy green rope. It whipped around the folds of the dress, twirled around his ankles, and rooted into the floor.

_Six._

“House, What’s happening?” The voice cracked, “Everything is fading.”

From his side of the doorway, House could see the interior melting into twilight. Gray and Wilson were brighter images, but with every stroke of the clock, the two of them were vanishing as well.

_Seven._

Gray stood up from the organ, his eyes locked and loaded on Wilson.  
_  
Eight._

The madman’s voice intoned, “At the end of the twelfth knell, my angel, you will be mine forever.” He emitted a gurgle that rose in pitch to an insane cackle.

House looked on paralyzed.  
_  
Nine._

He couldn’t watch helplessly without taking some kind of action. Foolhardy or dangerous, it didn’t matter. Wilson was going to be lost to him forever. He plunged back inside. The silver tip of his cane flashed as he pried and hammered at the stem, but nothing yielded. It held like a steel strap.  
_  
Ten._

He remembered the dual purpose of his cane, and pulled at the handle. Out slid a sword. The flat blade shimmered and caught the light. Delicate engraving highlighted the words, _Fighting for Love &amp; Loyalty._ He hacked at the strong verdant cable and slashed through the silk and lace to release Wilson’s wrists and ankles from the rose’s coiled stranglehold. As he severed the stalk, it dissolved into black soot and floated away. Wilson transformed from vapor to flesh.

_Eleven._

As soon as Wilson was able to move, he grabbed him around the waist, and propelled him toward the door, but the threshold was no longer there. He understood why Wilson was stumped earlier. Ivory tiles covered every wall. There were no openings in the interior of the room

He was desperate for a clue or an epiphany. Then he saw wet footprints on the floor. Water had tracked in from the chamber outside the operating room.

_Twe—_

“This way!” He locked on to the silken arm as…

They both stumbled out of the room.

_—ve!_

A scream of outrage howled from inside their former prison.

The chamber faded to black velvet leaving a misty silhouette hanging in the air until it scattered from sight.

The operating room flickered into view, but the doorway was soon covered with a bolted iron door. Row after row of tiles clattered into place across the wall like an auto-complete command on a solitaire game. Within the space of minute, a seamless, solid barrier rose in front of them.

House heard a huff of relief issue from Wilson and realized the the sound could have easily come from himself.

He was still holding onto Wilson as Wilson returned the grip, his soft brown eyes conveying affection and heartfelt thanks for the rescue. House did not know who initiated the hungry kiss that followed. The benefit of Wilson’s shredded skirt became apparent as he felt a bulge grind into his groin. He lost himself in Wilson's heat, urgent hands, encouraging mouth…

Until he heard the plop of liquid meeting the fine worsted of his jacket. His eyes looked up to see the faulty pipe, but there was none. He looked down at his shoulder. It wasn’t water, but blood from ragged cuts on Wilson’s fingers.

He shoved passionate thoughts to the side. “Here, let me look at your hands.”

Wilson nuzzled at the fuzz on his cheek, answering in a husky voice, “I’m fine.”

House inspected the cuts.

He would never tell Wilson, but he couldn’t fault Henry Gray’s taste. Of course, Wilson was one hell of a dangerous liaison tonight, but still worth the trouble. Was there nothing about Wilson that didn’t make him hot? He thought of one, the pantalettes. Grabbing a ruffle from the undergarment and ripping it off with one good tug, he wrapped the fabric around a couple of fingers and staunched the flow. “One or two cuts need stitches. Let’s get you upstairs.”

“No, House, I’m not parading upstairs looking like this.”

House acknowledged Wilson had a point. He wouldn’t go upstairs in his finery, let alone in ruined eye makeup and a shredded gown. He looked like a last place drag queen contestant wearing a gown created by an Edward Scissorhands wannabe.

His eyes followed along the wall until he came across the small case he brought and left in the corner before the role-play began. He hauled out its contents, “You're in luck, put these on. I stole some scrubs to wear as pajamas at home.” He rummaged through the case until he found flashlights and passed one to Wilson.  We can go out through the back basement exit. I’ll sew you up at the apartment.”

Too grateful to nag about stealing hospital supplies, Wilson hurriedly slipped them on, and they headed out toward an unused wing. As he rounded a corner and the doors came into view, Wilson began speaking. Apparently, he was sufficiently recovered from their recent ordeal, and was considering their next role-play.

“Since you chose _King Kong_ last time, and neither of us picked _Phantom of the Opera_, than it means it’s my turn. When do you want to go to Atlantic City, Rhett?”

“Stop batting those eyelashes at me, Wilson. Your raccoon eyes are not going to persuade me. It may be your turn, but I saved your ass, so I get to choose. How about, _I love Lucy_, when Ricky finds Lucy with a seven foot loaf of bread in the kitchen, and Ricky says, 'Lucy, you got some 'splainin’ to do… here in the kitchen, and then in the bedroom….'”

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose. "Don’t tell me. Another large prop. And you’ll expect me to bake it."

“Let’s try winging it this time. We take turns playing with ‘Little Ricky’ to see who rises to the occasion first. Does that work for you?”

Wilson opened the door to the isolated parking lot that no one ever used, a smile lighting his face. “You come up with some hair-brained schemes House, but you have this fantasy wrong. I’ll do it if you agree to one change.”

“Which is?”

“I can’t see myself playing Lucy to your Ricky… but, I am ready to play Ethel to your Lucy.”

House raised a closed fist toward Wilson, and they knuckle bumped. They could save the kissing until later….

.

.

Duh End… for after _The Black Hole_. Stop here unless you want to read the epilogue and original ending.

* * *

The first person House saw when he opened his eyes was Wilson.

“Did you… see… something? House? What did you see?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing-you-don't-want-to-talk-about-it, or nothing… ? House, you gotta talk about this…. ”

House kept his silence.

“Just looking at you hurts.” Wilson said as he reviewed the chart and scribbled. I'm going to order up some extra pain meds.”

House needed time before answering Wilson’s questions. What did he see? An out of body experience? An alternative universe? The hospital ghost of Princeton-Plainsboro’s future? A cautionary tale? Illusion, reality, or his own wish fulfillment. All he was sure of was that he wasn’t ready to discuss any of it with Wilson. Not yet. He chose to mask his feelings with a Mona Lisa smile and said, “I love you.”

 

.

* * *

  


**A/N: **Some trivia &amp; additional credits:  
1) August 2008 marks the 150th year anniversary of the first edition of _Gray's Anatomy_ written by Dr. Henry Gray. The full title was, _Anatomy Descriptive and Surgical._  
2) Dr. Timothy Holmes proofread the first edition and was instrumental in the continuing success of later editions after the death of Dr. Gray by staying on as editor. There was a suspected rivalry between the two men during their lifetimes. Dr Holmes (who lost an eye) was known to be difficult with his students.  
3) One of the top reference books prior to Dr. Gray's was, _Anatomist’s Vade Mecum"_ by Erasmus Wilson.  
4) Bach's _Toccata and Fugue in D Minor_ was the organ music that accompanied the 1925 silent movie classic _The Phantom of the Opera._  
5) Four versions of _The Phantom of the Opera_ were referenced in order to write this story: i) The 1909 story by Gaston Leroux, ii) The three films: 1925, 1943, and 2004.  
6) I also want to credit the writers of _Some Like it Hot_ for the Phantom's "Nobody's perfect" line. It was too good to pass up!

 

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During the LA Times Screening Panel in 2008, [HL compared House to the Phantom](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iD216kMFNrQ&feature=related). Remark comes almost at the end of the clip, at 4:04.


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